“My dear, need you ask?  But I did say at last that I had consulted with Archdeacon Thursby on the matter, and he had strongly advised me to do as I did.  The Bishop seemed thunderstruck.  And then—­it really seemed providential—­who should come in but Archdeacon Thursby himself.  The Bishop went straight up to him, and said, ’You come at a fortunate moment, for I am greatly distressed at the burning of Miss Gresley’s book, and Gresley tells me that you advised it.’  And would you believe it,” said Mr. Gresley, in a strangled voice, “the Archdeacon actually denied it then and there.  He said he did not know Hester had written a book, and had never been consulted on the subject.”

The tears forced themselves out of Mr. Gresley’s eyes.  He was exhausted and overwrought.  He sobbed against his wife’s shoulder.

“Wicked liar!” whispered Mrs. Gresley, into his parting.  “Wicked, wicked man!  Oh, James, I never thought the Archdeacon could have behaved like that!”

“Nor I,” gasped Mr. Gresley, “but he did.  I suppose he did not want to offend the Bishop.  And when I expostulated with him, and reminded him of what he had advised only the day before, he said that was about a letter, not a book, as if it mattered which it was.  It was the principle that mattered.  But they neither of them would listen to me.  I said I had offered to help to rewrite it, and the Bishop became quite fierce.  He said I might as well try to rewrite Regie if he were in his coffin.  And then he mentioned, casually, as if it were quite an afterthought, that Hester had sold it for a thousand pounds.  All through, I knew he was really trying to hurt my feelings, in spite of his manner, but when he said that he succeeded.”

Mr. Gresley groaned.

“A thousand pounds!” said Mrs. Gresley, turning white.  “Oh, it isn’t possible!”

“He said he had seen the publisher’s letter offering it, and that Hester had accepted it by his advice.  He seemed to know all about her affairs.  When he said that, I was so distressed I could not help showing it, and he made rather light of it, saying the money loss was the least serious part of the whole affair, but, of course, it is the worst.  Poor Hester, when I think that owing to me she has lost a thousand pounds.  Seventy pounds a year, if I had invested it for her, and I know of several good investments, all perfectly safe, at seven per cent.—­when I think of it it makes me absolutely miserable.  We won’t talk of it any more.  The Bishop sat with his head in his hands for a long time after the Archdeacon had gone, and afterwards he was quite kindly again, and said we looked at the subject from such different points of view that perhaps there was no use in discussing it.  And we talked of the Church Congress until the fly came, only he seemed dreadfully tired, quite knocked up.  And he promised to let us know first thing to-morrow morning how Hester was.  He was cordial when we left.  I think he meant well.  But I can never feel the same to Archdeacon Thursby again.  He was quite my greatest friend among the clergy round here.  I suppose I shall learn in time not to have such a high ideal of people, but I certainly thought very highly of him until to-day.”